My Sect Is Down to Seven People

Chapter 144: Ten Peopleʼs Bundles

On the first day of the fifth month, both stove eyes in the kitchen burned red.

Qian Duoduo dumped three sacks of coarse grain into the big wooden basin, added water, and plunged one arm in to stir. He stirred until a handful squeezed together held its shape, and a thumb press broke it apart again. Then he covered it with cloth and set it by the stove to rest. The iron pot went onto the first stove eye, and he wiped the bottom with a cloth corner dipped in oil.

”Donʼt let the fire reach the panʼs edge.” He crouched down and pointed at the stick of firewood in the firebox. ”If it reaches the edge, it burns. Burn one, and thatʼs one less.”

A He squatted at the stove mouth, a stick in his hand, pushing it in half an inch, then pulling it back half an inch. On the first cake, heʼd watched the fire too late. The ring around the edge blackened first; the black part curled up, and when cracked open, the inside was still soft. Qian Duoduo broke that one in half, stuffed one half into A Heʼs mouth, and ate the other himself. ”Burnt ones donʼt count.”

The bamboo trays were set out under the eaves outside the kitchen, propped on two long benches. The flatbreads went out one by one to dry, sun beating on them all day, brought in at night. Over three days, the flatbreads on the trays stacked into a pile, the edges dry and whitening.

The flatbreads had to be dried until hard. Qian Duoduo flipped the day-dried cakes over, rapped one with his finger, listened to the sound—only a crisp ring meant it was dry enough. ”The cakes we bring in—if theyʼre damp at all, theyʼll mold in two days.” He set aside three cakes from the first dayʼs batch and said these three didnʼt count toward the packs; whoever was hungry could eat them. A He broke off a piece and held it in his mouth. It was too hard to bite, so he waited for it to soften.

Rice came on the second day. The rice soaked first, until a finger could crush a grain with one pinch. Qian Duoduo lifted the pot lid and stood a single finger straight down into the rice. ”Water one finger over.” A He stood his finger on the rice; the water came up to the first joint. The first pot had too much water—the rice was so thin you could see your reflection in it. Qian Duoduo picked it up and drank a big bowl. ”Iʼll have this pot as porridge.” The second pot came out right. When the lid came off, steam rushed up, and each grain stood on its own. A Sui ran in and hung over the potʼs rim to look, got her nose too close, and pulled back rubbing her eyes.

The four days on the mountain—the watch at the gate kept to its schedule. Jiang Wan and Bai Xiaoman took Mao to Si; Shao Ming and Du Xiaochuan, Wu to Shen; Huo Qing and Shi Po, You to Hai; Xu Yan and Qi Qi, Zi to Yin. After shift change, people went down the mountain, scooped a bowl of water from the kitchen, stood a while at the Medicine Hall—no one lingered.

Noon of the second day, the Medicine Hall.

Cheng Banshan sat at the medicine desk, stuffing packets of medicine one by one into his medicine pouch. The pouch had three compartments: the first held daily-use remedies, the second held decoctions, the third stayed empty, reserved for herbs gathered on the road. The few packets hanging on the wall he left where they were; the rest all went in, packed full, tied shut, hung at his waist. The wine gourd went on too, hung a little further back than the medicine pouch so it wouldnʼt knock against his leg when he walked.

Bai Xiaoman sat on the threshold rolling formation banners. Four banners, rolled one by one, each into a rod, tied in the middle with a cloth strip. Five pebbles sat on her lap. She picked one up, flicked it with her finger to hear the ring—crisp ones to the left, dull ones to the right. In the end, the five she took were the same five sheʼd chosen before, wrapped in cloth, one per layer.

”When they ring, I know none fell out,” she said.

Cheng Banshan lifted his eyes. ”Already sorted?”

”Flicked.”

She wrapped the half-packet of cinnabar and a few scraps of yellow silk inside, tucked at the very outer layer of the bundle. Cheng Banshan pressed down on his medicine pouch. ”Enough for a month.”

The third day, Chen hour. Xu Yan came down from the mountain gate and entered Luoxia Town by Si hour.

The Wanshou Mountain tent still stood by the road at the quarry. Someone crouched outside, sharpening a short blade against a rock. At the town gate, two wheelbarrows rolled past loaded with firewood.

Outside Luoxia Inn, the clerk with the wooden box sat on the bench by the door, the box resting on his knees. Xu Yan took out the paper heʼd written on the night of the thirtieth and handed it over.

The clerk unfolded it and pointed from the first name to the last, one by one, tapping the paper. When he finished, he looked up.

”Ten.”

He folded the paper and placed it into the wooden box, closed the lid, and pressed down with both hands.

”All Eight Great Sectsʼ rosters are in this box. Qingyaʼs is the last to arrive.” The clerk patted the lid.

Xu Yan stood there and waited. The clerk asked nothing more. The rules said only that the count was taken at the gate—no inspection, no report. What these ten from Qingya carried on their backs or brought with them was not his business.

”Qingya is the landlord sect,” the clerk said, settling the box back onto his knees. ”Opening day, wait before the gate.”

Xu Yan acknowledged and turned to leave. In the front hall sat two disciples from other sects, a water pot on the table between them. They lifted their eyelids as he came in and went out.

Noon, at the gate of Wang Shuanʼs courtyard.

Wang Shuan was splitting wood in the yard, the axe rising, falling, each log splitting clean in two. Xu Yan stood on the dirt outside the courtyard gate.

”Uncle Wang.”

Wang Shuan stopped the axe and stood the piece in his hand upright.

”In the fifth month, only the two children and Nie Bo will be on the mountain,” Xu Yan said. ”We ten go through the gate on the fifth.”

Wang Shuan wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. ”The whole townʼs talking about this gate.”

”The gate is Qingyaʼs land.”

”I heard all Eight Great Sects are here.”

”They are.”

Wang Shuan tapped the chopping block with the axe. ”On market days and the tenths, Iʼll go up and check.”

”Thank you for that.”

”What will the children eat?”

”A He cooks.”

Wang Shuan glanced into his courtyard and swung again. ”Can he cook it right?”

”Heʼs learned the rice,” Xu Yan said. ”Soak first, water one finger over.”

Wang Shuan grunted. Xu Yan stood outside the gate a while longer, watching him split five or six more logs, then turned to go. After a few steps, the axe fell behind him again.

Back on the mountain by Wei hour. Xu Yan stopped at the Medicine Hall door; Cheng Banshan was moving the remaining wall packets up to the top compartment.

”For the three staying on the mountain,” Cheng Banshan said. ”Headaches and fevers—enough.”

The fourth day, Si hour. The last batch of coarse-grain flatbreads came off the stove. The cakes dried until noon. Qian Duoduo wrapped them pack by pack, tied them with hemp rope, laid them out in a row on the long bench, counted from one end, then counted back from the other end to ten. Still the same words: ”Not one pack short.”

Shen hour. Cheng Banshan covered the Medicine Hallʼs furnace mouth with an old cloth and weighted it with a brick.

You hour. Du Xiaochuan came off watch and squatted at the firewood shed door, tying torches. The wood was cut on the West Slope, each stick shaved straight, wrapped three times with cloth strips, made into four torches, leaned against the firewood shed wall.

”Four,” he said. ”Two lit on the road, two kept in reserve.”

”Thatʼs enough,” Xu Yan said.

The torches were barely done when Qi Qi returned to the mountain with a report.

”Early Shen hour, a mule cart arrived at the inn.” He stood outside the Accounts Room threshold, and as was his habit, gave the time first. ”The Rank Evaluator took the innermost room.”

Xu Yan opened the ledger to the gate-watch page and added a line at the bottom: ”Fifth month, fourth day, early Shen hour, Rank Evaluator arrives at Luoxia Inn.” He set the brush back on the inkstone.

Xu hour. Lamps lit in the Main Hall.

Two long benches set together, ten bundles arranged on top, one against the next. Shi Poʼs sat at the far end, fatter than all the rest—on the thirtieth, Xu Yan had told him to carry an extra pack; after the flatbreads were done, Qian Duoduo had wrapped the edge pieces from the last tray into a small separate pack and tied it to the outside of his bundle.

Qian Duoduo lifted one pack from the row and set it at Xu Yanʼs feet. ”The Sect Masterʼs pack.”

Xu Yan untied the rope and looked inside. The cakes were stacked neat, the top two cut with edges smoother than any of the others. He tied the rope back. ”Same as everyone elseʼs.”

”Same,” Qian Duoduo said. ”Except these two—I made those myself, no A He watching the fire.”

Du Xiaochuan carried the four torches in and leaned them by the door. ”The cloth strips were a bit damp. I dried them by the stove.”

A Sui started from one end of the bench, feeling each bundle. The bundles were soft; she pressed down with one hand, and on the fourth one her fingertips met something hard inside. She pulled back.

”Thereʼs a stone in this one.”

”Mine,” Bai Xiaoman said. ”The formation banners are in the outer layer. Unfold it when we enter and all four are ready.”

”Donʼt squish it,” Jiang Wan said.

A Sui pressed the next one, much softer. ”This oneʼs the softest.”

”Elder Chengʼs,” Qian Duoduo said. ”His medicine isnʼt in it—the medicineʼs at his waist. This pack is flatbreads and one change of clothes.”

A Sui wiped her hand on her clothes and kept feeling down the row. At the last one, she pushed with both hands. It wouldnʼt budge. She crouched at the benchʼs edge and asked, ”How long is a month?”

”Until the fifth of the sixth month,” A He said beside her.

”Where will you be that day?”

”Coming out of the gate,” Xu Yan said.

A He brought a pot of rice in from the kitchen, the rim padded with two cloths. This pot was his. When the lid came off, everyone in the Main Hall could smell it.

”One hot meal before we go,” Qian Duoduo said, setting out bowls. ”Inside for a month, eating flatbread.”

A He passed out bowls. At the eleventh, he stopped, picked it up, and headed for the door. Xu Yan didnʼt call him back. A moment later he returned, the bowl empty. ”Nie Bo ate.”

”The day you come back,” A He said, ”Iʼll cook a pot of rice.”

”Good,” Xu Yan said.

Jiang Wan stood by the bench, looking at the row of bundles.

”A month,” she said.

”A month,” Xu Yan said.

”Who leads?”

”I do.”

Jiang Wan pulled her hand back from the bundles. ”I walk second.”

Shao Ming set down his bowl. ”Who carries the torches?”

”Du Xiaochuan,” Xu Yan said. ”Two lit, two in reserve.”

”The bundles go up from behind the Ancestral Hall tomorrow at Mao hour,” Xu Yan went on. ”Ten people, one pack each, carry your own. Shi Po carries an extra.”

”I haul the grain.” Shi Po wasnʼt in the Main Hall; Qian Duoduo said it for him, and laughed at himself doing it.

Xu Yan went over the mountain affairs with A He and A Sui: rice in the jar, board over the top; enough firewood split for the stove; water hauled from the stream—if one trip doesnʼt fill it, two. A He answered each point, and at the firewood, looked up. ”I can split wood too.”

”Good that you can,” Xu Yan said. ”Just remember the board over the rice jar.”

Dispersed at Hai hour. In the Accounts Room, Xu Yan went through the essentials: the ledger at his chest, the Sect Master Token against his skin. He wrote one line on a piece of paper—”Fifth month, fifth day, Chen hour, open the gate”—and set the inkstone on top of it.

Zi hour. Last watch.

Xu Yan carried his lamp out of the Accounts Room. Qi Qi waited halfway up the path. Two li of mountain road, two quarter-hours to climb. At the gate, Huo Qing and Shi Po already stood outside the three-step line, wait to hand over.

Shi Po tightened the rope on his shoulder. ”Tomorrow we go in?”

”Chen hour, the gate opens,” Xu Yan said.

”I haul the grain,” Shi Po said again.

Huo Qing handed over the lamp. ”The seal strip hasnʼt moved.”

The two of them went down the mountain, their footsteps fading down the stone steps. Xu Yan and Qi Qi took their places outside the three-step line. Qi Qi raised the lamp high; the light fell at an angle, landing on the crack between the two stone slabs—the seal strip stretched across it, the ink reading ”Alliance Year 301, Fourth Month, Sixteenth Day” clear and sharp, all four edges still flat, the middle unbroken.

Wind came through the crack, and the lamp flame bent to one side.

Xu Yan raised his hand and paused three inches from the seal strip, then drew it back.